


The Lighthouse

by Gidgit2u



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, F/M, Vague inference of Centaur brutality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10156556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gidgit2u/pseuds/Gidgit2u
Summary: Laid up by a curse from a wayward Death Eater, Blaise recounts the source of light that kept him from succumbing to the darkness during the war, and the reasons he'd attempted to save the woman he cared for above all else, to the Auror's greatest surprise.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Death_by_Quill](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Death_by_Quill) collection. 



> I do not own anything but the plot and make no money from this story.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read :)

“I noticed her during fifth year — Merlin, what a crap year that was! — right before a Quidditch match. She was wearing a _horrendous_ homemade headdress of a lion eating a snake, and while others openly mocked, I was secretly impressed with the craftsmanship, detail and imbibed magic. I was raised to recognize and appreciate quality workmanship, regardless of sophistication. It wasn't something I could outwardly acknowledge, nor would I have found her headdress worth even first notice on a shop mannequin, but atop _her_ head…” Blaise sighed wistfully.

“She had a… _unique_ … sense of fashion and wispy tresses that floated around her like spun butter as she wove herself throughout the castle corridors. My eye was caught from that day forth.”

He winked with forced bravado at the man who sat beside him listening with silent incredulity.

“They hadn't glistened like Draco's platinum — those beeswax strands of hers — but rather, had radiated a subtle warmth, an almost imperceptible glow. Though the aura was subtle, only visible in certain lights against certain backgrounds, it ensconced her nonetheless.”

Blaise coughed and took a small sip of water, smiling slightly as he said, “It behooved me to turn a blind eye upon her aesthetic eccentricities as they caused my inner aristocrat to break out in hives of repugnance and I quite fancied her.”

“Luna. You fancied _Luna_?”

“Yes.” Blaise said simply, and the man’s brow furrowed. “Despite company that consisted of a merry band of Gryffindors including the illustrious trio, she still appeared apart somehow; an island fortress unto herself. Her solitude ultimately ensnared me.”

Blaise was quiet a moment, before muttering softly, “I’d known from an early age what it felt like to feel alone in a crowd. To find ones self slightly askew of their peers machinations. I believed I saw the reflection of myself in her, and thus she attracted my gaze like an idiosyncratic moth to an open, starving flame.”

“What about the… _others_?” The man said, attempting politeness but Blaise could see beneath the veneer to the rancor below.

Blaise gave a harsh, barking laugh that quickly turned to raspy cough, doused by a long pull from the cup beside him.

With a disdainful roll of his eyes, he said, “I was very careful to reserve my observations for when others of my _esteem_ weren't around, for she was nothing but a ‘ _dirty little blood traitor_ ’, or so went the approved rhetoric of my station and kin. A captivating, intriguing blood traitor, but one nonetheless.”

He stared off into the hazy morning light filtering through the shuttered window that lazily danced patterns upon the institutional floor.

“The way the scales were shifting, stepping off the ledge of neutrality into the abyss of possible defeat over an… ill-begotten temptation, well… I’m nothing if not a stone-cold pragmatist.”

The man laughed genuinely. “I dare say that's true Zabini!”

“Indeed.” Blaise smiled an echo of his serpentine grin, before sobering.

“I was no good to anyone dead — even being neutral — and dead was where I'd have headed if I’d changed apparent affiliations at that time. So I covertly watched her, and over the remaining months of that school year felt myself develop a sense of kinship toward that spritely unique Ravenclaw. Unbeknown to her, of course!”

“Apparently,” the man snorted.

Blaise coughed roughly again before continuing. “She'd unknowingly wormed herself a neat little path through my heart that no one, not even my own _madre_ , had been able to accomplish. I witnessed continual ostracization by her housemates, overheard her somewhat erratic commentary that when one actually _listened_ , made the most astounding sense. I watched her solitary trips to the thestral paddock where she'd toss bloody steaks to the ground only to have them disappear while having long conversations into what appeared to be thin air. And no one really _saw_ this lone creature for what she was — it felt like — but me.”

The man sat there, a look of shocked befuddlement blooming as Blaise spoke.

“I watched her continue to smile and carry on and wear her outlandish embellishments to our staid uniform despite the ridicule and castigations thrown her way and I'd been tempted.”

“Tempted?”

“Tempted, to seek her out, to offer her solace, friendship… and hopefully more. She fascinated me, on every conceivable level.”

The man just sat there, mouth slightly agape.

“The temptation to steal a smattering of her peace was tempered by my fickle conscience asserting itself and reminding me that I wore the invisible anchor all pureblood Slytherins of our generation did. That it'd be wrong to drown a light such as hers in the shadowed waters I treaded. So I held myself back, and no one was the wiser.”

Blaise smiled softly then; a smile hinting at memories.

“I hadn’t known her name for quite some time. When I overheard it through diligently subtle eavesdropping, I found it suited her with an almost saccharine legitimacy, though it's a tad on-the-nose… Don't you agree?”

Blaise sighed, “ _Luna Lovegood_.”

“She was instrumental in Potter informing the world of Voldemort’s return, despite the danger of being the rogue publisher’s daughter. Watching her over lunch that day the now ‘ _infamous Quibbler article_ ’ was released and witnessing her cheerful and unassuming bravery, it caused the walls around my heart to crack infinitesimally with pride.”

He paused, then whispered,”I wished then that I could be so bold, so steadfast, in the face of severe and inevitable repercussions.”

“Did you speak to her _at all_ that year?”

Blaise shook his head, no.

“Sadly, fear had me observing from the shadows. My resolve to remain aloof was shaken, however; the day I heard of Draco’s little group of pseudo-soldiers catching her lot and manhandling them while Granger and Potter ingeniously removed Umbridge from her post. Those two Gryffindors neutralized Umbridge in a manner I can admit gave even us _Slytherins_ pause in its severity and savagery. Who’d have thought that the uppity swot had it in her to instigate such desecration? Not I…”

“They never said what happened in the forest that day. Do I want to —”

“No, you do not.” Blaise said curtly.

“How do you —”

“Leave it _be_.” Coughed out Blaise.

Strained silence with undercurrents of curiosity, stretched for a beat before the man nodded in defeat.

“I'm not including that part in my report,” said the man, somewhat nervously.

“I wouldn't,” said Blaise between coughs.

“Let sleeping dragons lie… Anyway, it was the next day my resolve to remain disengaged weakened; when word escaped that not only had Luna and the merry lot of Gryffindors left Hogwarts, travelled to London _without_ using traceable magic, and successfully broke into the most protected department at the Ministry of Magic to foil Voldemort and his followers and _won_. Once I learned she was back at Hogwarts and unharmed, it was all I could do to keep my expressions and comportment as austere and aloof as possible despite bursting with smug exultation. I had to maintain my mask.”

More hacking ensued, requiring the man to refill Blaise’s glass himself, bringing it up to meet his parted lips. He diligently ignored the way the Slytherin’s hands trembled violently atop the starkness of the sheets and the thin sheen of sweat upon his sallow brow.

“This curse… feels like it's eating me from the inside out.”

The man grimaced. “It is, somewhat.”

“Well fuck,” Blaise said, his shoulders dropping.

When he was able to regain his composure, Blaise continued.

“While the rest of my classmates were in a state of social chaos — either suffering condemnations through proxy of relation or those that groused superiority and gleeful judgements — following the arrests and subsequent public statements that actually included _names_ , I instead found it difficult to suppress the smirk that threatened my lips all day, while simultaneously having to remind myself she was unharmed to curtail my fear of loss.”

Blaise’s lips formed into his trademark smirk, though it didn't meet his bloodshot eyes. “I thought, the tides, they might be changing… Then came sixth year, and it all went to shit; darkness descended and she, well, she became the lighthouse beckoning me on to safety.”

><><><><><

He'd had to rest after that. The conversation had taken its toll on the former Slytherin, and Blaise spent the rest of the day alternating between slumber and fevered mutterings. The man kept a bedside vigil, ensuring Blaise remained hydrated by feeding him spoonfuls of broth when coherent.

When dawn broke the following morning, the man performed Blaise’s ablutions using his wand with a level of care and compassion that in years previous would not have been present. Blaise, whose skin once radiated the depth of the richest cocoa bean, now was ashen; saturation depleted and dull like a moldy, withered fig.

“Ready to continue?” The man asked, oddly polite. Blaise nodded.

“Yes,” he croaked, the previous day's conversation having strained the current capacity of his vocal cords.

“So sixth year…” the man began and Blaise waved his hand feebly, cutting him off.

“I'm dying, not mentally inept or senile,” he sneered, and the Blaise of yesteryear flittered across his face in full glory. If only for a moment.

“My _deepest_ apologizes,” The man mocked, though the bite was tempered by a grin. Blaise continued as if the other’d never spoken.

“That was the year Draco took the mark, and the last of our collective innocence was shattered. Even those of us without direct ties to the Death Eaters were tainted by association, and despite Hogwarts remaining insulated from the darkness outside its walls, we snakes all knew the score.”

Blaise’s body gave a spasm, his eyes rolling back before he once again lay placid amongst the worn sheets and increasingly sweat-soaked pillow.

“Luna kept me from simultaneously drowning and drifting off into the sea of oblivion. She was my constant beacon of light through that pervasive and tempting darkness; a lighthouse promising safety and indicating obstacles to avoid. Most ships heed the lighthouse’s missive, maintaining a wide berth so as not to shipwreck. Crashing ashore would be life-threatening or worse, but I sailed straight-on, and so crash I did, spectacularly. It saved me.”

Blaise stared out the opened window, the magically imbibed scent of the ocean’s breeze pervading the room with a salty, chilled caress. The man waited patiently, quill poised.

“Almost time now, _caro il mio amore_ ,” Blaise murmured, his fingertips lightly tracing an outline around the face of the woman in the somewhat faded yet perfectly creased photograph beside the bed. The woman appeared almost cognizant of his touch as she leaned toward his finger, though the man knew that was impossible and more likely a coincidence.

Photographs had never been known to be sentient.

“It was after one of Slughorn’s meetings that we met. I'd been feeling despondent, reckless; madre had again remarried — I can't remember if he was husband number seven or eight — to a businessman with indirect ties to Voldemort’s platform. I was weary of the taunts and barbs from my peers about her frequent _entanglements_ , and disgusted with her lack of integrity. She'd preached neutrality and self preservation above all else…”

Blaise broke off to convulse, drinking water laced with a strong dose of pain potion.

“It was Luna who eventually made me realize that her marriage _was_ self preservation. She had truly believed Voldemort would win… her marriage was an insurance of sorts, and despite loose ties to that volatile psychopath, her new husband treated her with kindness and respect. Behaviors that not many men running in those circles could boast about displaying.”

“I'd imagine not.”

“Better to appear the property of someone who respects their treasures, rather than as a shiny bauble on the nominal auction block, around for the masses to pass around without purchase. Luna’s words, and it’s stayed with me to this day.”

“I was roaming the halls that night, uncaring if I was caught. I needed space, to cool my head enough to return to the snake den with mask intact. I'd just entered the charms corridor when light footsteps approached. Before I could slither into the shadows, she appeared. Typically, students react one of two ways when they meet a Slytherin alone in the corridor; with aggression or with fear. I was prepared for either, though how she reacted to me that day I will remember until my dying breath. That was the moment my ship crashed ashore, barreling straight into her luminescence and hurling me prone atop the proverbial rocks —”

A severe coughing fit commandeered Blaise's lungs and the next twenty minutes were spent clearing his airway and wrestling his breathing under control. More potions were administered, temperatures taken, and finally, the two men were left alone once more.

“Never a dull moment with you Zabini,” the man said softly. It was all Blaise could do to not cringe at the pity leaking from the Auror’s eyes despite the friendly smile.

“Glad… to entertain.” Blaise rasped dryly.

“Now, as I was saying… She wasn't most people, though I'd already determined that. Upon crossing paths that night in the deserted corridor, Luna walked right up to me, sure as steel, and asked me in her soothing lilt why a Blue Tristis was hovering around my head.”

The man chuckled. “A Blue Tristis, those hadn't even been acknowledged by the ministry then…”

“Exactly.” Blaise said, “Most would have thought her off her rocker, and had I _not_  just spent the year before observing her I might have too. Sure enough, three years later the world now acknowledges that Blue Tristis do exist… I was in a right foul mood that night and she saw what others tended to overlook. Even when her claims sounded outlandish, I didn't ridicule her or condemn her as ‘ _slightly touched_ ’.”

“S’more than most did,” said the man sadly.

“I just nodded and attempted to continue on. As I mentioned, I didn't want the intrinsic anchor of my house and lineage to even touch her by proxy. But she was a force unto her self. She had actually noticed _me_ noticing _her_ over the past year, and as I slunk by she grabbed my hand and held fast. We spent the following hours of the night walking, Luna listening to words I'd never been able to previously vocalize outside of my head.” Blaise sighed.

“From that moment on, she was a tangible constant. In the library, in the corridors, in the courtyard… she had the uncanny ability to infer when I'd be alone and when I'd need a shoulder or an ear. Someone I could converse with without the weight of the mask we all typically don.”

“She’s a natural at exposing the superfluous.” Nodded the man.

“Over that year, as Draco continually cocked up his assignment and Potter dogged Draco’s steps in his overzealous and completely obvious obsession, and Granger and Weasley provided us all with their tediously amusing dramatics, Luna and I became closer… _much_ closer.”

“She never said a word,” whispered the man, looking distraught and rather annoyed.

“Why would she?” Asked Blaise simply. “You lot weren't the most tolerant to those outside you own, and the lines you drew didn't account for shades that fell between hard black and white. Those of us in the grey didn't stand a chance of being accepted… we were tarred with the same brush as those who you outright opposed, no quarter given.”

“That’s not —” The man began, but stopped short at Blaise’s raised eyebrow.

“What? Fair? _True_? Of course it is, it's just a hard potion to swallow. Viewing memories through the distorted lens of time discards truths. History is written by the victors after all, and no one likes to admit to their own fallacies and shortcomings.”

Silence settled in the room once more, this time heavy with friction from years of mutual distrust and recent civility.

The man picked up his quill rather stiffly. “Please proceed.”

“Her warmth and acceptance were balms against the chaos, and it was tempting to remain here with her, as we were happy… She ultimately convinced me to leave the continent my final year. The war was ramping up, she knew as well as I that if I didn't escape Voldemort’s clutches then, I never would.”

“So you left her behind, unprotected?”

“She wasn't unprotected Longbottom, you wanker, we stayed discretely in —”

A convulsing fit overcame him, one so violent, blood wrenched itself free of Blaise's mouth. His pallor leached saturation until he appeared almost translucent against the beige sheet below him, a stark contrast to his ebony hue of a day earlier.

“I'd just returned when I saw her in Diagon Alley… we’d just locked eyes… and _then_ … I thought with the war won and done months ago, we were all in the clear…”Blaise said, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“We're doing our best,” Neville said softly.

“Well, your best didn't save _her_ … and now it's killing me.”

Tilting his head toward the photo propped beside the potions vial on the bedside table, Blaise said quietly through heavily labored breaths, “Please… Longbottom… tell the healers that the two pain potions… when taken together, actually negate the effects of the other… since I _also_ couldn't save Luna, I don't want my death to be completely in vain.”

“Wait! You don't _know_?!” Neville asked incredulously, straightening.

“Know… what?”

Neville closed his book quietly, the parchment with Blaise’s statement written upon it now for Luna's eyes instead of his own case file.

“You did save her Zabini! The curse that's killing you… Your spell intercepted it and changed its course, unfortunately, onto yourself. Yours, I'm pleased to say, took down the Death Eater responsible.”

“She’s… alive?” Blaise croaked, tears falling freely.

“She's unconscious, an echo of the curse still transferred, but yes, she's alive.”

Blaise's last breath expelled through lips frozen in smile, while the woman in the photograph began to weep.

 


End file.
